Staying Alive (Four Paths Out Of Miami Dade)
by Clair de Lune - CdL
Summary: Obviously, Michael never died breaking Sara out of Miami Dade... (Post-series, fix-it ficlets)


**Title: Staying Alive (Four Paths Out Of Miami Dade)**  
 **Characters, pairings:** Michael, Michael/Sara (implied)  
 **Summary:** Obviously, Michael never died breaking Sara out of Miami Dade... (Post-series, fix-it ficlets)  
 **Categories:** Gen, romance, in-between...  
 **Author's note:** I'm started to think that, maybe, instead of spending four years on _Story of Faith_ , I should have just written the tiny things below: so much easier and faster! Thanks to MsGenevieve447 for the beta.

* * *

 ** _Planned/Unplanned_**

He'd planned everything.

Everything.

He knew the electrical shock wouldn't kill him. Shake him badly, yes; kill him, no.

The tumor had never come back. The nosebleeds had, sure enough: they were caused by stress and worry and exhaustion. But the tumor had never come back. Believe it or not, The Company had kept its word on this one. He needed the notion of the tumor to implement his plan, though, for without it, Sara wouldn't have left him behind when escaping; she and Lincoln would have been ridden with guilt.

He'd planned everything because he didn't deserve anything. Because of him, Veronica had died, Sara's life had been ruined, Lincoln had gone through so many trials and tribulations, LJ had been jailed and kidnapped and scarred for life. Directly or not, he'd left a terrifying body count in his wake: Abruzzi, Tweener, T-Bag's victims, Bellick.

So many others.

He'd planned everything because he knew that eventually he would have only brought more misery upon Sara and their child, upon Lincoln and LJ, upon anyone he loved.

Better to disappear forever.

Once. He indulged his longing to see them once. He flew to Costa Rica and watched them from afar. He saw them, safe and appeased if not happy, but missing something — someone. The temptation to show up was almost too strong.

He remembered the scars on Sara's back and Lincoln being tortured by their own mother, and he walked away.

He'd planned everything.

What he _hadn't_ planned, was ten years later, after time and Kellerman had done their work and gotten Sara a presidential pardon, to run into them in Baja.

He had not planned for his son googling at him with huge eyes and asking him if he was his Dad.

He had not planned for Sara snaking her arms around him and kissing him so hard that it hurt before she stepped back and doubled over in a thousand unbearable emotions.

He had not planned for his brother pulling him into a bear hug and then punching him in the face because it had taken Lincoln about three minutes to understand what he'd done.

You could not plan for _everything_ , it seemed.

* * *

 ** _Contractual_**

There was no tumor anymore. He'd felt sick to his stomach to lie to Sara, but there was no tumor anymore. He had to pretend, though — a twisted incentive to make her accept his so-called suicidal plan. Even, or perhaps even less so, with their child's growing in her belly, he wasn't sure she would have rolled with it otherwise.

With harder thinking and more thorough planning, he could have come up with other ways to break her out of Miami Dade. But not in time, not soon enough to save her. Hence the deal he stroke, the contract he signed, and the plan that would make it look like he'd died, the plan that complied with his new employer's requirements for discretion. Discretion to the point of secrecy.

So he connected the wires he knew would not kill him, contrary to what he'd suggested to Sara, and he opened the door for her — the irony wasn't lost on him — before he'd quietly retreated through the maze of Miami Dade's corridors and tunnels. No matter how sure he was of their plan, he didn't breathe freely until he'd reached the surface. He had three seconds to smell Miami's heavy air before he had to dive into the back of a black SUV.

There was no Company anymore, but ex-agent and wannabe politician Kellerman still had a lot of work for him to do. The escapes, the hunt, the deals, Caroline Reynolds' disgrace and a dozen other tiny or not so tiny things that were Michael's doing — no matter what part The Company had played — had cost a lot to the country. A lot like in _a fucking lot_ , Kellerman had pointed out.

Someone had to pay the bill, right? And while he paid it, those he loved more than anything, those he was willing to go to the end of the earth for — or as a matter of fact, to a facility somewhere in Montana — would be safe and sound. He would go back to them at some point, Kellerman swore it, cross his heart, if he lied he died. Michael would only lose a few years with them: better than actually dying in that basement. The sacrifice was a small price for their peace of mind and for Sara's freedom.

* * *

 ** _Against his will_**

The electricity crackled between the two wires he was holding firmly. In each sparkle, he could see a bright future for Sara, their child, and for Lincoln.

Until a pair of hands heavily landed on his shoulders and dragged him away. He fought against those hands, pushing down the panic that was threatening to take over. He didn't have time for that. Mere seconds to let Sara out.

And then he stopped fighting because someone else had grabbed the wires, someone properly equipped not to get fried in the process, someone who connected the wires and opened the door for Sara. He closed his eyes and sighed in relief, watched Sara go away and sagged into whoever-was-holding-him's embrace.

A sting in his neck and he blacked out.

When he opened his eyes again — two hours or two days later, go figure — he was sprawled out in the back seat of a large limo, an epic headache making every move and every glance painful. In the opposite seat, a woman with dark hair and clear eyes was patiently waiting for him to emerge.

Lisa Tabak. The General's daughter.

"I have a deal and a job offer for you, Mr. Scofield. I take care of that little lump in that exceptional brain of yours and you—"

Despite the headache, he managed to snicker.

"Nice try. Been there, done that, didn't work."

She tilted her head. "Trust me on that one."

"Thanks, but no thanks. I thought you'd walked away from all this, anyway."

She shrugged.

"Family. Family works in mysterious ways. It's amazing what a close relative facing death penalty — even a close relative you've had a fallout out with — can make you do. I don't need to explain this to you, though, do I? So, I have a job offer for you, Mr. Scofield. It's not really an _offer_ , obviously, and I know that eventually you will manage to escape. I've been told once that it's in your blood. But until then, I'm quite confident that we can make good use of each other's skills."

It took him five years, one month, two weeks and three days. But Lisa Tabak had it right: it was in his blood.

* * *

 ** _Unbeknown to himself_**

He remembered something akin to an explosion. He remembered the instinctive urge to walk away and go as far as possible as fast as possible. He remembered walking, hopping in trains and borrowing cars. He remembered waking up in a hospital in Virginia — kind of appropriate Virginia for his memory virgin of any memories, right?

A doctor told him there was a problem with his brain. ( _No shit, Sherlock? I can't remember my own name._ ) A problem with his brain besides the obvious issue of the amnesia: a leftover of a tumor that had been dealt with not so long ago. The surgeon had missed something; missed it in a way that was downright criminal and should have had him or her be sued for medical malpractice.

He didn't remember anything else. Through the next weeks, months and years, images of plans, tattoos, odd buildings and more explosions found their way into his dreams. A woman with long, dark red hair who smiled at him, kissed and loved him. A man who spoke of family and quarrels and comfort. A few almost faceless people radiating a feeling of unusual friendship.

When he got better, when he could get a job, an apartment and a semblance of life, he goggled and looked up and researched and never found anything. _As if you'd been erased from the surface of the earth_ , kidded an acquaintance who, despite his best efforts, would never be able to reach the level of love, comfort and unusual friendship he felt in his dreams.

He found out he had a very particular and broad set of skills. He also found out he wasn't the kind to give up.

So he didn't give up. He kept looking. For the woman, for the man, for the faceless friends. For himself. Having faith that one day, he would find something or someone.

* * *

 ** _By chance and with faith_**

... You'll have to read _Story of Faith_ for this one *g*

FIN

* * *

 _ **End notes:**_ _I'm a bit meh-meh about the amnesia thing_ — Unbeknown to himself — _because at some point, someone is bound to recognize Michael and tell him who he is, but... let's suspend our disbelief for that one ;)_


End file.
